


being anchored aboard just feels like a curse

by tsukitheoverlord



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Diary/Journal, M/M, Sailor AU, loosely based on the what a catch donnie music video, patrick as one man ship crew, pete as a victim of near drowning, told through a series of diary entries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 12:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16597595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukitheoverlord/pseuds/tsukitheoverlord
Summary: I’m still not convinced how shouting into the void via dollar store notebook and cheap fucking pen is going to help me, but I guess I’ve got nothing to lose.The day to day diary entries of a man alone at sea.Then by chance, he finds himself just a little less alone.





	1. April 16th - April 28th

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stella Malke (meiratyn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meiratyn/gifts).



> I never thought I'd reach this point, but here I am!
> 
> This is an AU loosely inspired by the What a Catch, Donnie music video in which Patrick works alone on a boat out at sea. Told in a series of diary entries written in first person perspective. Some chapters will end up being prose, but a majority of the story will be told through Patrick's diary entries.
> 
> Title is taken from 27.

_April 16th, XXXX_

I’m going to christen the first page of this journal by saying that, just for the record - I think this is stupid.

The guy that was in my post before this recommended it.  Said something like, “It’ll help keep you sane.”

I don’t know if I trust how well that will work, but it’s been weeks already and I didn’t realize how fucking depressing it is having absolutely no one to talk to.

So.  Me, pen, journal.

What are you even supposed to write in these things?

This is a shitty first entry.

Whatever.  It’s an experiment, there, I can say I tried it even if I put this fucking thing down and never look at it again.

 

\- Patrick

 

⋆⋆

_April 20th, XXXX_

So, here’s me, giving this another shot.

I’m still not convinced how shouting into the void via dollar store notebook and cheap fucking pen is going to help me, but I guess I’ve got nothing to lose.

Not like anyone’s ever gonna see this anyway.

I still don’t really know what I’m supposed to be writing in these.  

The ocean was calm today.  Clear skies, wind but only enough for the water to lap at the sides of the boat.  Listened to the gulls while I finished charts.

It wasn’t a bad day.

 

\- Patrick

 

⋆⋆

_April 22nd, XXXX_

Fishing sucked today.  Had a pretty shitty haul.  Nothing was biting.

The clouds started creeping in over the horizon, and the air has that heavy taste to it like it does just before it storms.

Don’t even hear the gulls today.

Should probably anchor for today and try to sleep early.

 

\- Patrick

 

⋆⋆ 

_April 23rd, XXXX_

The only good thing I can say about last night is that it probably wasn’t the worst storm I’ve weathered.

I barely slept; got thrown out of my cot three times before I gave up on the idea.

Soon as things calmed down when morning came, I spent a couple hours cleaning things up.  The boat got rocked pretty good, so I had some picking up to do.

Fucking knocked my equipment around everywhere.  Nothing seems broken, which is the only relief to come out of any of this.

I heard the gulls again this morning, so I guess that means I’m in the clear for now.

Doesn’t change how fucking exhausted and irritated I am.

Well, another day, another dollar.  Or whatever.

 

\- Patrick

 

⋆⋆

_April 27th, XXXX_

Happy 25th birthday to me.

At least the weather’s nice.

Getting to port won’t come soon enough.

I’m cracking open a bottle of whiskey I’ve seen saving, just for tonight.  Fuck finishing charts. I’m going to drink until I can’t think.

So that’s all I’m writing tonight.

 

\- Patrick

 

⋆⋆

_April 28th, XXXX_

Jesus fucking Christ.

Okay.

I found a guy just fucking _floating_ next to my boat this morning.

And if I screamed like a little girl when I saw him, well, that’s just between me and the pages in this notebook.

After I was done having what was probably a meltdown and mild panic attack all rolled into one, I leaned over to poke him with my fishing rod to check if he was dead.

And that’s when he moved.

Kind of just twitched a little, more accurately, and I was wondering for a second if it could have just been the current that moved him, but… before I knew it I was leaning over and hauling him aboard without really thinking too much about it, getting my front soaked with ocean water in the process.

He was cold, that was the first thing I noticed, cold and solid and heavy and all I could think was… oh, god, did I just haul a dead body aboard?  What am I supposed to do now?

Before I got too ahead of myself I checked his pulse.

His throat was just as cold as the rest of him, but, as I held my breath, two fingers on his carotid, I felt it.

A flutter, a really scary fucking weak flutter, but it was there.

So I did what I know how to.  Dried him off, changed him into some spare clothes of mine, heaped him under blankets on my cot.

He hasn’t so much as twitched in days, and I’m at a fucking loss.

I keep checking his pulse, and though it’s weak, it’s there.

Now I just have to figure out what to do when he wakes up.

I don’t want to think about ‘if’.

I’m going to be sleeping in my desk chair for a while.  This is pretty fucked.

 

\- Patrick


	2. April 29th - May 8th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very grateful for the kudos and bookmarks!
> 
> Here's a few more entries as thanks!

_ April 29th, XXXX _

Mystery man’s still out like a light.  His pulse hasn’t gotten any stronger. I’m not supposed to make port for  months .

What the fuck am I supposed to do if he dies on me?

Fuck

that.

I’m not going to think about it right now.

\- Patrick  
  


⋆⋆

_ April 30th, XXXX _

I’m getting distracted from my  fucking job because I can’t focus when I’ve got a maybe-possibly-not-quite dead body sleeping in my bed.  My back aches because I’ve been sleeping in my desk chair for days.

I’ve tried radio, but I can’t get a hold of anyone for longer than a few seconds.  The signal’s probably fucked six ways to Sunday because of that storm.

Even worse for me, out in the middle of the ocean with no one but a dead man and the gulls and fish for company.

This was not in the fucking job description.

This is what I get for trying to be a good Samaritan.

\- Patrick

⋆⋆

 

_ May 1st, XXXX _

He woke up.

I was at my desk, working, when I heard him stumble and fall out of my cot.

I was up right away, nearly scattering everything in my haste to run to him and seize him by the shoulders.

He’s warmer now, is what I noticed.  Less pallid, too.

He didn’t seem very lucid, didn’t seem to have any idea where he was or why he was here, so I ushered him back into bed and he was promptly out as soon as his head hit the pillow once again.

Well.

He’s not dead.

I guess that’s the good news.

\- Patrick  
  


⋆⋆

_ May 3rd, XXXX _

He came 'round again.

I walked into my room and nearly had a heart attack when I saw him sitting up, blinking blearily as though he’d awoken from a long dream.

In his defense, that was probably what it felt like.

He stared at me for a long time, and I at him, both of us waiting for the other to make the first move.

He opened his mouth and said, in a voice hoarse with disuse, 

“I thought I dreamt you.”

I snorted at that, mouth taking over before my brain could reign it in.

“I’m no one’s dream, dude.”

And he stared, stared for long enough I thought he’d burn holes in me with his gaze.  Brilliantly amber, the color of the whiskey I’d drunk on my birthday.

For reasons I can’t articulate, it made my guts curdle and twist like live eels.

But then he just shrugged.

“Thought you were mine.”

I didn’t have anything to say back to that, tongue too heavy and dry in my mouth.

There was just another beat of silence, and he was speaking again, asking me questions.

What day is it?  Where is this? How long have I been out?

I answered everything to the best of my ability until he was satisfied, leaning back in my cot, looking even more exhausted, somehow.

I chanced asking him if he remembered how he got here.

He seemed hesitant, wringing the blanket between his hands.

He obviously didn’t want to answer, so I wasn’t about to push him, then insisting that he drink water and eat something, and we could figure out what to do about this from there.   


He seemed grateful.

I still don’t feel inclined to push, but how exactly  _ did _ he end up all the way out here?  There’s no land for miles and miles.

My curiosity still burns.  Maybe I’ll try asking again later, once he’s regained some strength.

Then I can send him back home when I make port again.

\- Patrick

⋆⋆

_ May 5th, XXXX _

I’ve learned more about Mr. Nearly Drowned over the course of today and yesterday.

His name’s Pete.  He wouldn’t give his last name.  He’s only got maybe an inch or two on me when standing up straight, but he’s built slender and lithe, like a runner.  Tattoos cover his arms and torso, nearly as much ink as I’ve seen on older sailors I knew back home.

He likes to talk to fill the silence.  I’m not really used to that, after being alone with just this journal for company for so long.

It’s not so bad, having someone to share this small space with, even if it’s just temporary.

\- Patrick

⋆⋆

_ May 8th, XXXX _

Pete seems to be recovering pretty well.  He’s got an appetite, and has regained much of his color.  Nothing permanent seems to be wrong, but I still think he should see a doctor or something when he gets back to the mainland.

I told him he was lucky, and he gave me a strange look, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Am I?”  He asked me.

I didn’t really know what to say to that.

Honestly?  I still have no idea how I was meant to react.

There's definitely something up with Pete.

\- Patrick


	3. May 9th - May 20th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing these entries is getting easier!
> 
> I'm excited to get to Pete's birthday, which is coming up in this fic.
> 
> Enjoy! Please kudo or comment if you enjoyed! It's not required but loved and appreciated :)

_ May 9th, XXXX _

This boat really wasn't made to he home to more than one.  It's weird having to share a space I always thought of as just mine.

Pete isn't the easiest person to share a tiny boat with, either.

He's messy and nosy and likes to lean over my shoulder whenever I try to sit down at the end of the day and write.

He doesn't seem very interested in going back to land, either, which is… really weird.

“I like you, Pat,” he says with that infuriating smile of his, the points of his canines hooked over his lower lip.

It's a pretty disarming look, though I'll be damned if I tell him that.

I also do notice he's still avoiding telling me anything about himself or why he's here.

Or why he doesn't seem to want to go back.

\- Patrick

⋆⋆

_ May 13th, XXXX _

I've had to forgo writing for a few days because lately, Pete has been very interested in what I write here before bed.

I started to keep my journal on me so he isn't tempted to sneak a peek. I've also taken to sitting out on the deck and writing by flashlight after he's gone to bed, just in case.

Though I've noticed he doesn't seem to sleep that regularly.

It's like he's a wrench thrown in the cogs of my routine.

It's weird.

He's weird.

I'm weird.

\- Patrick

⋆⋆

_ May 14th, XXXX _

He's been asking me about myself, my work, what I do.

I wanted to ask him, why should I offer you anything about myself when you haven't told me a single damn thing?

It's like he can hear the words in my hesitation anyway, and smiles that miserable-looking smile he does that makes me feel like shit.

So.  I tell him a little.

Nothing too personal, but he seems too thrilled with any tidbits I offer.

I do charting, I tell him.  Gone for most of the year, back for a month at a time.

I keep it vague, expecting disinterest anyway.

“Isn't it hard, though?” he asks. “Being out here alone for so long?”

I couldn't look him in the eye as he spoke.  I didn't want to see the pity there.

The pity I knew had to be there.

I spat that I was doing just fine, thanks, storming out to the deck without waiting for an answer.

I hate that he seems to see right through me.

I need to get him off my boat and get back to normal.

Whatever that means these days.

\- Patrick

⋆⋆

_ May 16th, XXXX _

Pete's been giving me space lately.

Or as much space as you can possibly give someone on this floating tin can.

It's probably because I snapped at him the other day, but somehow the fact that he's being considerate after breathing down my neck for so long only makes me even more pissed.

It makes me want to lash out at him even more.

So I continue this stupid charade and keep my distance.

\- Patrick

⋆⋆

_ May 17th, XXXX _

I am not talking to him.

Yes, I am a fucking adult fuck off.

\- Patrick

⋆⋆

_ May 19th, XXXX _

Did I mention it's near fucking impossible to avoid someone on a boat this size?

It's like trying to avoid someone in an elevator.  You can try, but you're both stuck in the same space headed to the same place until you get there.

Anyway.  Avoiding (or trying to avoid) Pete became more exhausting than it was worth.

I know I've been being both ridiculous and stubborn.  I know it.

I'm sure he knows it too.

He just kind of… hit a little too close to home with his question.

Honestly?

Yeah, I am lonely.  I thought I could handle it.  I thought this journal would help.

I don't even know what I'm writing right now.

I guess the nature thing to do would be to apologize for being a bitch.

But I've never really been that good at making the first move in these situations.

I haven't apologized yet, but I started avoiding him less, so it's a start.

\- Patrick

⋆⋆

_ May 20th, XXXX _

I didn't exactly apologize in so many words, but since I stopped avoiding Pete, he seemed to get the idea.

He's started shooting me more of those disarmingly charming grins.

It makes eating my dinner feel like swallowing live worms.

\- Patrick


End file.
